In The White Space
by Ordinary and Adorable
Summary: After Sherlock's fall, John tries to cope, and finds unexpected help from the new receptionist at the surgery, a quiet book-lover named Mary. By just being herself, Mary helps John open up enough to realize the truth about himself and, more importantly, the truth about how he feels about Sherlock. Johnlock, I promise! However, it's all implied until the very end.
1. 1 Month

**1 Month.**

John sat up, gasping. He'd dreamed it again. Seen it again.

Sherlock fell. He hit the pavement. The blood… God, the blood had been so _bright_. Stark against the familiar, pale skin. Pooling on the pavement. And Sherlock's eyes…

He shook his head, running his hands through his hair. Dammit, he was tired of these dreams. He was tired of seeing Sherlock die in his mind's eye nearly every night. It hurt… It hurt a lot.

He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching. Another day at the surgery, trying to forget, keeping it together, working as though it were the most natural thing in the world. That was the hardest part: continuing. The world had, somehow, kept turning. And he had been forced to turn right along with it, as much as he'd desired to only lie in bed day in and day out. He'd actually done that, the first week. Just stayed in the flat. Stayed in bed. Eating very little, sleeping all day but never resting.

Then he'd had to learn how to keep turning with the world.

He'd tried therapy again, but he couldn't talk to her. He knew he should have opened up, should have 'gotten it out' as she said, but not to her. She just… She didn't understand it. No one did. They just… they didn't. Sherlock had. Sherlock had read him, known him, and understood him. After Sherlock, he doubted anyone ever would again.

He got ready, limping out the door.

"Take care, John." Mrs. Hudson said, as she did every morning. She'd been a Godsend, really. Making him eat, cleaning up where she could, chiding him for not sleeping. All the while reminding him that she was not his housekeeper.

He nodded to her and caught a cab to work. It was unsettling how soon after his week away from the world he'd settled back into routine. There had been a new receptionist hired while he was away, a girl named Margret or Mary or Margary or some such thing. She was nice enough, told him hello every morning, but he's only noted that she was new and went on.

"Morning," the new girl said politely, as she did every morning. He nodded politely and carried on.

Sarah'd been keeping an eye on him. Everyone had, really. It was appreciated, but he was surviving, somehow. It was difficult, but he managed to put up the front for work. At home… Well, they couldn't see him when he was home, so what did it matter?

On lunch break that day, as he did every day, he merely sat in the break room, staring off into space. He didn't eat lunch any more. He hardly ate anything anymore. Nothing tasted good.

Today was a little different, though. He had company. It was the new receptionist. She was sitting as the opposite end of the table, reading and eating a salad. The silence between them was comfortable, John was surprised to find. Most people either wanted to 'talk about it' or they just left the room. Left him alone.

Somehow this woman was managing to simultaneously leave him alone and keep him company. He found he didn't mind at all. It was very strange, but he didn't complain. He merely sat back; eyes closed, until his lunch break was over, then went back to work. The whole time, she never said a word. He didn't think she even looked up from her book or her food.

For once, at least for a little while, his mind was on something besides Sherlock.


	2. 3 Months

**3 Months.**

It had become habit. Mary –for that was her name- would sit in the break room with him every day, quietly eating and reading. Neither ever said a word, and neither ever felt the need to. The only words exchanged were when she greeted him in the morning. Her shift was over by the time he left at night.

John noticed that she read very fast. She always had improbably thick books with her, but they never lasted her more than a week and a half. She ate seemingly random foods, never sticking to a particular type or diet. She rarely wore make-up, and never much of it. Her hair was usually down. John noticed it all, still observing, even without Sherlock.

Their first conversation was simple, effortless. It was on a day that John had been distracted after a night he hadn't slept worth a damn. It was exactly three months after Sherlock had fallen. He didn't want to be awake, much less working. Everything hurt.

He sat, weary, and closed his eyes, as he always did. This time, though, he fell asleep. He woke to a gentle hand on his shoulder. For a moment, he could have sworn it was Sherlock, probably because he'd been dreaming of him again. Opening his eyes, he saw it was just Mary, smiling gently. She was a lot shorter than he'd thought she was…

"You'll need to go back to work soon." She said, softly. "Sorry if I startled you, but you did need to wake up…"

"Ah… Right." He said, shaking his head and blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. "Thank you…"

She looked at him, her head tilted a little, a certain sadness in her eyes. An understanding, sympathetic sadness.

"I can tell them you needed to go home, if you like. Say you were needed elsewhere. You've been here every day since you came back, you can afford to take a day."

John stared at her, bewildered. They'd never spoken to each other, they'd never done more than exchange greetings, but here she was, offering to make it so he could go home for the day. Not just that, but _encouraging_him to go home.

"Are… Are you sure?" he asked.

"Of course." She said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're dead on your feet, and that's no proper state for anyone to have to work in, much less a doctor."

"Thank you."

"Go home." She urged him, still smiling. "I'll see you tomorrow and make sure no one gets touchy about you leaving."

John left, grateful for her kindness. He couldn't understand for the life of him why she'd done that, but he didn't argue. Rather, he went home. He curled up in bed. He wept for a while, trying to pull himself together. Then, he slept. He became blissfully unaware of his surroundings.


	3. 6 Months

**6 Months**

They'd started talking after she'd told him to go home that day, he and Mary had. Small conversations. About what she was reading, about whom John was working with. About coworkers and clients. About everyday things that didn't matter. She was one of very few people who never said a word about Sherlock. Never tried to offer John comfort or words of solace. There were days John would go in and not speak at all, and she always caught on. On those days she merely sat and read, just as she had when she'd started sharing the break room with him.

It was a relief. At first, it had just been those few minutes where he wasn't thinking about Sherlock. Just when they'd talk and he'd be distracted. Then it started to carry over. The distraction would last for a few minutes after they'd parted ways. Then an hour. Then two. Then he'd started to look forward to lunch, so that it lasted a few minutes before they talked. Then an hour, and more so.

Of course, he still thought of Sherlock. He still missed him with all his heart. But now, at least, it didn't hurt with every step. He didn't feel like everything was falling apart around him. He didn't feel like he was drowning. In no way was he out of the water yet, but at least he could tread and stay afloat.

"And so I'm sitting there, minding my own business in this café," She laughed as she told the story. "And this little boy, not six years old I bet, comes up to me, and he looks right at me and he asks me, in this serious little voice, 'Why are you reading a diction'ry?' Now, remember, I'm in Scotland. The accent there is marvelous, in my opinion, and coming from this little kid, it was just _priceless_. So I told him, no, it was just a big book. Then he looks at me and he nods, and he turns to look back at the table he came from, and I notice there's his mum and dad and a little girl, must be his older sister. She looks 'round nine or so, and he shouts across this café, 'I _told_ you it wasn't a diction'ry!' and starts walking back, just looking pleased as punch."

John laughed with her. She had a very easy laugh, Mary did. Loud and bubbly, and she laughed at what seemed to be the smallest things. Her smile, her laugh, they were contagious. Not always enough to get him laughing with her, but enough so that he didn't feel quite so down as he had in months previously.

It was all so very natural. In the same sense that Mary never talking about Sherlock or pry into anything about John's life, she also never tried to force him to be happy. She was just happy and she threw enough of it around for anyone who happened to need any to catch. If they weren't, she was sympathetic, but didn't ever ask, she just carried right on being herself, trying to help in little ways.

"Does that happen to you often? Kids thinking you're reading the dictionary?" He asked, genuinely interested.

"Yes." She grinned. "But they're just big books. Collections, mostly."

"Poetry." He nodded.

"How did you know that?"

"I've noted what you're reading when I could. Habit, I guess. Noticing little things." Sherlock, rubbing off on him…

She nodded, seeming to sense a touchy topic.

"Yeah, poetry. Short stories, though, too. Poe." She smiled. "Nice attention to detail."

He smiled awkwardly, glancing at the clock.

"Well, I'd best go." He said, standing. "Uhm…" He paused on his way out the door. "Could I… Could I get your mobile number?" He asked, sheepishly.

"Sure!" She beamed. "I get terribly bored at home without anyone to talk to. And I really enjoy talking with you." She held out her hand, "Mind if I just put it in your phone?"

John handed her his mobile, and she grabbed it, typed for a moment, and handed it back.

"Thanks!" She handed it back.

John took it, remembering how, once upon a time, he'd loaned his phone to someone and, by the time that someone returned it, they had known almost everything about John.

"Thank you." He muttered, the memory stinging. Maybe, if he could talk to Mary outside work, it would continue to help. Just maybe he could start moving on.

Because he hadn't started to move on. He still sat alone in the flat, expecting Sherlock home any minute. He still played Bach pieces over the computer and closed his eyes, picturing Sherlock with the instrument tucked under his chin. He would still, on occasion, go so far as to make two cups of tea. Sometimes he found himself asking Sherlock a question aloud, even though there was no one to answer. It was terrible when he was at home by himself…

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, he took it out and checked the text:

You really should eat lunch, you know, it's better for you! –MM

He saved her number, resolving to text her when he got home.


	4. 9 Months

**9 Months.**

'I'm at the library. I need something to read at home. Suggestions? JW'

'_Red Badge of Courage_. It's excellent, I think you'll love it. MM'

'Author? JW'

'Stephen Crane. MM'

John browsed the shelves, finally finding the novel in question. He took it down, reading the back.

'This is a war story. JW'

'Well, yes. MM'

'How did you know? JW'

'Know what? MM'

At first he grinned, thinking she was playing innocent, but then he remembered: Mary, so far, knew nothing about his life in the army. For all they'd talked, they hadn't talked too much about his past. His preferences, what he did with his leisure time, yes. But never his past. John wasn't letting those walls down quite yet.

Not only that, but he'd assumed she had deduced it just as Sherlock had. He missed hearing about all the little clues that led Sherlock to make a big conclusion from something seemingly insignificant… He missed Sherlock every day. It was getting better, it wasn't nearly so crushing all the time now, but he still had his days where he merely holed up in the flat, missing Sherlock.

'I was in the military. Came back from Afghanistan a little over two years ago. JW'

'Oh! No, I had no idea, you never told me. Haha A look into the life of John Watson! :) MM'

John's lips twitched into a small smile.

'Just a small one. JW'

'Right. MM'

He was fortunate that Mary understood the way she did. He rarely talked about himself with any depth. She never asked for more than what he gave. She was quite honestly one of the best people he'd ever met.

The past month or so, he'd tried slipping little hints that he was interested. A compliment, a smile that lingered too long, more eye contact. He wanted to try for a relationship, to feel close to someone, a little bit of normality. She hadn't seemed to catch on at all, though.

The next day, in their regular lunch-break chat, he decided to be more forward than he had before and just flat out ask her on a date. It couldn't hurt, right?

"Mary?" He asked, when there was a pause in conversation.

"Hmm?" She asked, turning a page in her book and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Would you… Care to go get dinner sometime?" There. The question was out. Now, to wait.

She looked up, looking a little startled, and for a moment John thought he'd crossed the line.

"You mean a date?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yes." He nodded.

A flush crept into her cheeks as she smiled in her easy way, and hope rose in John. Maybe he could truly have a chance with her!

"John, I… I am flattered, but…" She paused, and he cursed inwardly. There was always that damned 'but…' with him…

"I'm not looking for a boyfriend." She said, simply.

"Already spoken for." He nodded.

"No." She said, "Just not looking for a boyfriend."

"So… just not interested?" Maybe he still had a chance, with time.

"No, John." She shook her head, the laughter dancing in her eyes. "I said I'm not looking for a _boyfriend_, not that I'm not _looking_."

Then it hit him. God, he was thick. You'd think, growing up with Harry, he'd be able to tell by now which team a girl played for, but he was still oblivious.

"Oh! Oh." He said, smacking himself in the forehead, "Mary, I am so sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Oh, it's fine!" She said, laughing a little. "Don't beat yourself up about it, John. I'm flattered you're interested, at least _someone_ is." She put on a mock-pout.

John chuckled, vowing to talk to Harry about this later.

"But, I thought you were…" Mary started, then shook her head. "Doesn't matter." She said brightly, "Did you get _Red Badge_?"

"Yes," said John, choosing to ignore the fact that, yet again, he'd been thought of as a gay man.

"Enjoying it?" She asked, leaning forward.

"Haven't started." He said, "Got busy."

"Doing what?" She laughed, "I always pictured you went home and watched crap telly…"

He'd gone home and started playing Bach on his computer. He'd made two mugs of tea and had only drunk one. He had re-read his blog entries for the thousandth time and remembered how things were. He had missed Sherlock.

"Fell asleep," He said, simply, betraying nothing.


	5. 12 Months

**12 Months.**

'You're late. MM'

'You all right? MM'

'Lunch is really boring alone. MM'

'John, are you all right? I'm a little worried about you. More than a little, no one's heard from you all day. MM'

John looked at the most recent of the four messages. He and Mary had been getting closer, he'd let a few of his walls down. She still knew next to nothing about Sherlock, though, unless she'd done her research. She didn't seem the type to pry, so he doubted she had.

He sighed. He'd only been awake today in short periods. He hadn't eaten. He'd barely moved. Now, he was finally awake, taking a cab to pay a visit to Sherlock's… To Sherlock.

'Fine. Tough day. JW'

He shut off his phone. He knew Mary cared, that she worried. He just… It didn't matter right now, he didn't want to talk.

He got out, paid the cabbie and thanked him, and walked slowly through the cemetery, leaning heavily on his cane. One year. An entire _year_ had gone by without Sherlock… How had that happened? How had he managed to be alone again for a year?

He reached the solid black stone and just stood there, thinking. Remembering. Missing.

"I asked you for one more miracle, Sherlock." He spoke after a time. "Just one more. I asked you not to be dead. It's been a year… A full year. Any chance you could make good on that soon? Any chance at all?" He stopped, cleared his throat a little, "Mycroft, even though he's a damned git and I really can't stand him, has been helping me pay for 221b. Never asked him to, and he never says a word about it, but I know it's him. Maybe he's trying to make up for selling you out like he did." He snorted.

He was silent a little while longer, tears falling slowly.

"It's been dull, Sherlock. Without you here. It's been horribly dull. Nothing happens, just like I was before I met you. Nothing interests me. You managed to make things exciting, make things matter. I don't have that any more, not without you." He sighed heavily.

"Lestrade's tried to get me to help on a few cases, but I can't. I'm not you, and I'm nowhere near good enough to replace you. Not only that, but… It's not right, Sherlock. Me, going alone to help the Yard, without you? That's not right… It doesn't work. It was something _we_ did, you and I. A team…"

"God, I miss you." He said, and then fell silent, just standing, staring at nothing.

After a time, he reached forward, placed a hand on the top of the stone for a few brief moments, then turned and left.


	6. 14 Months

**14 Months.**

Mary sat across the break room from him, watching him with her head tilted a little.

"John?" She said, softly. Seriously. She was rarely so serious, but when she was, it was in a gentle, focused way.

"Hm?" He replied, marking hit place her latest recommended book. It was a collection of Edgar Alan Poe stories. He'd had to skip Murders of the Rue Morgue, though she swore it was the best one he'd ever written. It simply reminded him too much of Sherlock.

"I've known you almost a year." She said by way of opening.

He nodded.

"Who is it you miss, John?" She asked.

"You saw the papers, you've heard the talk…" He said, hoping to skirt around the subject.

"I've seen his name in print, John. That doesn't mean I know who the person is that you miss." She said quietly.

He looked down, blinking. He hadn't said anything about Sherlock to her, still. Hardly mentioned his name at all. Perhaps… Perhaps it was time to explain a little. But not here, not now.

"Do you… Are you… I'd like to explain elsewhere." He said.

"Tonight?"

He nodded.

"Wherever you'd like to meet, John, but only if you'd truly like to. But I… I want to help you, want to be your support. I can't do any more knowing nothing, though, John. I can't." She sounded… so sad. So genuinely apologetic that she couldn't.

"I know." He cleared his throat. "221b Baker St."

"Time?"

"Seven."

"Message me if you change your mind and I will understand totally and completely."

He nodded, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat.

Several times that day, he thought about messaging her, calling off her going to the flat. Each time, he stopped himself. He knew that if he put it off now, it would just come up again later. He wasn't going to get out of explaining what happened to her. Not forever.

And he was realizing that he didn't want to. He wanted her help. She supported him. Cared about him, more than anyone had since Sherlock. She took care of him. Not in an overbearing way, not in a way where she constantly asked how he was doing or how he was feeling or was everything all right. She rarely asked those things. She just knew if he wasn't all right, she knew if he didn't want to talk, she knew if he was having a worse day than usual. She always just knew.

This was the only time she had asked about any of it, and he was amazed she never had before. She had every right to know, of course. He'd just been putting it off…

He sat and waited for her, trying to quell the nervousness in his stomach. Trying to figure out just how to tell her how much Sherlock had meant to him…

At exactly seven, there was a soft knock at the door. He got up and opened it, and she gave him a small smile.

"Hello." She help up a box, "I brought wontons, from that Chinese place down the way." She smiled at him shyly.

"Thank you," John motioned for her to come inside and she did, looking around curiously.

"It's… tidier than I expected."

John laughed a little, trying not to be to overwhelmed.

"There's… that's spray paint on you wall." She said, pointing to the bright yellow smilie. "With… Dear Lord, are those bullet holes?"

"Yes…" He said, sadly. "They are…"

"Where on Earth did they come from?" She laughed a little.

"Sit down, and I'll tell you…" He said, taking his place in his armchair.

Mary sat on the couch, slipping off her shoes and shifting her weight to the side to tuck her feet under her. She pulled a wonton out of the bag and nibbled at it, watching John. Waiting for him to speak.

The way she sat, with all of her focus on him, so calmly and quietly, gave John the impression that she'd wait they for hours, maybe even days, for him to speak. He closed his eyes and sighed.

"About two and a half years ago," He started, slowly, "I was… looking for a flat. An old schoolmate introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. I was in a room with him for less than three minutes. By watching me and borrowing my phone, he was able to figure out almost everything about me. He knew I'd been in Afghanistan, he knew I was seeing a therapist, he knew that I had a psychosomatic limp."

John paused, lost in thought.

"I'd just met him and he wanted to be my flat mate. No questions, he just… He was fine with living with me. I knew nothing about him and he knew everything about me."

Another pause.

"He was a genius. I found that out the first time I went with him. The serial suicides, d'you remember? I was with him while he figured it all out… It was madness, watching his mind work…"

He stared at his hands for a moment.

"He always had all these mad experiments going on in the flat. Body parts brought home from the morgue sat in the fridge… Something always smelled odd, something was always amiss. And if something was really troubling him, he'd play the violin. He… He played beautifully.

"He had this habit of talking to me even after I'd left the flat. Never seemed to notice when I left. I'd suddenly get a text asking where I'd gone even though I'd been out for hours."

Again, he lapsed into silence. He had no idea how to truly describe Sherlock…

"He acted so much like he didn't care, like all he focused on was work. But… I remember a time when some men broke into our flat, one of them had hit Mrs. Hudson… Sherlock dropped him out the window, he was furious… And once… He told me… Well, I'd been angry, irritated with him, because he'd told me he didn't have _friends_. Later… Later on he told me that he hadn't lied. He didn't have friends. He looked at me and he said to me 'I've just got one.'"

John sighed, putting his face in his hands.

"He was half-mad… He never really seemed to have time for anyone, never seemed to think anyone on his level, if you will, but… I never felt like that. I felt like… He appreciated having me around."

The whole time, Mary had been silent, still curled up on his couch, watching him with understanding eyes.

"You said you'd tell me about those bullet holes." She said, quietly.

"Right." He nodded, "Right, I did. It was simple, really. Sherlock was just sitting in his chair, absently firing a gun into the wall. I ran up here, demanded to know what the Hell he thought he was doing. And all he said was that he was bored. He sat right there," He nodded to the chair, remembering clearly, "And fired a gun at the wall of the flat because he was 'bored'.

"Before I met Sherlock, nothing happened. Nothing. I sat at home, I tried to find something to occupy myself. Then I got thrown into life with Sherlock and I loved it. I loved every mad minute of it, even though I didn't always realize it at the time…"

He hadn't realized when the tears started, but they were tracking down his cheeks freely now.

"I miss the excitement. The madness of his pacing and muttering and experiments. I miss hearing him up at odd hours, miss when he'd play the violin. I miss the person most people never saw. Or never cared to see. People saw a calculating, eccentric genius. And he was, I'm not saying he wasn't. But he was more than just a man with an odd, brilliant mind. He was… He was Sherlock."

He fell quiet, taking a deep, shaky breath. God, he missed Sherlock. He missed everything about him. He hadn't realized how close he'd become to the world's only consulting detective until he was gone, and now it was all he ever thought about.

"You cared about him." Mary said, softly.

John nodded.

"Sounds like he cared about you, too…"

John shook his head a little.

"Don't." He said, quietly, "Please. Please don't. I'm sorry. I just…"

"I understand." Mary said, nodding, "I won't say anything more."

John nodded in thanks.

"You all right, John?"

John nodded again.

Mary stood, coming over to place a hand on his shoulder.

"I'll see you at work tomorrow. Eat something." She bent down and placed a soft kiss on the top of his head.

John closed his eyes as he heard the door click shut. He hadn't even had to ask her to let him be alone for a while, she had just _known_.

After a time, he wiped his eyes. He sniffed. He stood. He curled up in Sherlock's bed as opposed to his own, as he always did when it was hardest.

He lay there, breathing deeply, desperate to catch a scent that had faded months ago, trying to catch some trace of Sherlock.

He finally fell asleep, curled in a tight ball, wishing desperately for Sherlock to come back, but at the same time knowing that he never would.


	7. 20 Months

**20 Months.**

'Almost to London? JW'

'Nearly. About 20 minutes. HW'

'Excellent. I've someone you've got to meet. JW'

'Finally seeing someone? HW'

'Not quite. Remember that girl I told you about a few months ago, Mary? JW'

'The one you think might fancy me? Yeah. HW'

'I'll make sure you two finally meet. JW'

'Not a blind date. Those are just damned horrific. HW'

'I'll be there, we'll make an outing of it. JW'

'Excellent! See you soon, Johnny. HW'

'Don't call me that. JW'

'Sure, sure. How're you doing after… Well, with everything? HW'

'I will see you when you get here. JW'

John shut his mobile and pocketed it. Always questions about Sherlock. It wasn't getting any easier, really. He had Mary for company and conversation, he had his work to distract him, but he still had an empty flat and a hole in his chest. He'd become quite resigned to it being there.

"She'll be here in about twenty minutes." He said to Mary, looking over at where she was curled up on the sofa. She'd really become accustomed to the spot when she visited. She'd seemed to know right away that Sherlock's chair wasn't somewhere to sit.

"Oh, God, John, I think you're mad." She said, fiddling with the necklace she was wearing. "I've never done this sort of thing before in my life."

"You're just meeting my sister." John smiled. "It's not a big deal, but, who knows, you might fancy her."

"I'm sure I will. What if she doesn't fancy me at all?"

"Mary. She'll love you. Trust me."

Mary nodded, still fidgeting.

John watched her, smiling, and they sat in silence for a few moments.

"What if she thinks I'm annoying?"

John laughed.

"Harry? Thinking someone's annoying? No. She's too much of a spitfire for that. You'll be fine."

Not two minutes later, there was a knock. Mary jumped, and John gave her a reassuring smile, crossing to open the door.

"Hey, li'l brother!" She grinned at him.

"Your hair." He said, flatly. "Is purple."

"That it is." She replied, cocky as ever. She leaned forward to hug him, "10 months, before you ask."

"Ten?" He raised his eyebrows, impressed.

"_Ten._" She said, obviously relishing it. "Gonna let me in or not?"

He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come inside.

"Harry, and please forgive the rhyme in advance, this is Mary. A friend of mine from work, the one I've told you about."

Harry crossed the room and shook Mary's hand, beaming.

"He hardly shuts up about you, on the occasions we talk. Sounds like you've made quite an impression on my little brother."

"I've done what I can," Mary smiled, "But sometimes it's hard to get him to talk."

John sat, watching the girls get to know each other, smiling.

"John, what's this?" Harry asked, reaching for Sherlock's violin, which John hadn't ever had the heart to put away.

"Leave it!" He said, leaping up to grab her wrist.

"But… You don't play, do you?" She looked at him, "I thought you only played clarinet?"

"Don't worry about it," He muttered.

"So, dinner." Mary said, coming to his rescue. "Shall we?"

"Where're we going?" Harry perked up at the mention of food.

"Place called Angelo's, right, John?" Mary said.

He nodded, "You two go on ahead. I'll stay here." He forced a smile.

"I knew it!" Harry laughed, hitting John's shoulder. "I knew you were doing this! You've tricked us into a date."

He shrugged, laughing a little.

"Go, you two. You'll enjoy it." He insisted. He had planned on going with him, but… After Harry had reached for Sherlock's violin, after watching the two interact… The familiar ache in his chest was starting up.

Mary stood, kissing John on the forehead.

"Thank you." She smiled at him.

"No problem." He smiled back.

"Shall we?" Harry offered her arm, and Mary slipped hers into it. They looked like they'd always been together, like they fit that way. It was just that easy. John, for just a moment, wondered if he and Sherlock had ever looked like that…

The two left and John remained seated, thinking. Mulling over the thought that had flashed across his mind as the pair left. Had he and Sherlock looked as though they belonged together? They must have, everyone assumed it. And every time, he had denied it.

Sherlock never had, though… Never…

For the first time, John wondered what that meant. Did he just not care what people thought, or… did he want people thinking he and John were together? What had Sherlock wanted?

John sighed, hanging his head. He wouldn't ever know what Sherlock wanted. So what did it matter… What did it matter how Sherlock felt toward him? Or how he felt toward Sherlock.

He shook his head fiercely, getting up. This was ridiculous. Sherlock had been his friend, had only ever been his friend….

Besides, none of it mattered now.

He rummaged in the cabinets for a moment, finding a bottle of whisky. He didn't often drink. He rarely drank hard liquor. But tonight…

He needed a little help forgetting.


	8. 24 Months

**24 Months**

He was drunk. Quite drunk. He didn't think he'd ever been this drunk in his life.

He was sitting in front of Sherlock's grave, legs crossed, head leaned against the black stone.

"God, you bastard…" He said. "You just… You just left and here I am trying to figure out what the Hell I'm doing… Missing you every damn day and you've just… I asked you for a miracle, you remember? Do you? I asked you not to be dead, you prat… I want you not to be dead, Sherlock. It's all I've wanted… But no. You're still gone, still in the damned ground…" He pulled his head back a little, then hit it against the stone, quite hard.

"Sherlock, how am I supposed to keep doing this? How? I thought… I thought I saw you the other day, you know… Saw a man in a coat like yours, with dark hair, and I… I ran after him. I called out your name and he turned 'round and looked at me like I was mad.

"Then, the other day, I was in the flat… Just sitting and staring and I had that version of Clair de Lune you'd play every so often, when you really needed to think… And I swear to God, Sherlock, I heard you. You said, clear as day, 'John, this is boring.' And I replied to you. I told you that this was what I wanted to do… And then we talked. For over an hour, I sat there and I heard you and I answered. Eventually… I stopped hearing you…

"I'm so tired of being alone in that flat, Sherlock. I need you there. I can't be alone like this…" Tears streamed down his face. It was getting cold. He'd been there for hours, saying the same things over and over, drinking out of the bottle he'd brought with him. "You could just stop this, you know… Come back. Chase the crazy away… I'm going mad, Sherlock, I swear I am…"

He stopped talking and hit his head on the stone again. It didn't really hurt… It probably should have. His phone beeped. It had done that a lot today… He dug for it in his pocket, squinting at the screen. He had six texts, all from Mary.

'Where are you? MM'

'I know what today is, John, are you all right? MM'

'I'm more than worried right now. MM'

'John, answer me. I know it's a hard day, but let me know you're okay. MM'

'Why are you not home? MM'

'I'm out looking for you. Tell me where you are, I'll get you home. MM'

He texted back, fingers fumbling over the keys. 'Viostingf Shjerlmock… JW'

Another beep.

'Be there soon. MM'

He pocketed his phone, leaning against the stone again.

After a few moments, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked blearily up at Mary.

"Come on." She said, softly.

He let her lead him, stumbling, to her car. They rode in silence, and she helped him struggle into the flat, making their way slowly up the steps. He collapsed onto the couch, and she settled in his usual chair.

There was silence for a while, until John finally spoke, words slurred.

"I loved him…"

Mary looked at him and nodded.

"I know you did."

"God," he muttered, "I loved him… I love him and I never _told_ him… I always told people… Told them we weren't a couple. That I wasn't _gay_. I didn't… I didn't _think_ I was gay." He slumped. He would probably regret saying these things tomorrow, but he wasn't regretting it now. So he kept talking.

"He just… God, he fascinated me. He cared about me. Lots of people said he didn't care, but I know he did… He was odd, but he wasn't heartless… I… I wish I'd told him I knew that. I really wish I had… I called him a machine, the day he… At the hospital… God… I never apologized for that… I let him jump and I never apologized for that…

"Maybe… Maybe if I'd told him, he'd have stayed… Maybe if I'd have just said I loved him, he never would have jumped… Maybe it would have stopped him." He let himself trail off.

"John… We'll never know it. But… at least you've realized you love him. That's often the hardest part. Thinking you're something you're not. Telling yourself that you're straight, that you're not really in love with them, that you're mistaken…"

John shook his head.

"Dammit, I wish I'd just… let myself believe it… That I'd just… come to terms with it before he… Before…" He swallowed and shut up.

"John, you need to get some sleep…"

He nodded.

"Come on."

She led him to his bed, where he collapsed. He was asleep, out for who knew how long. When he woke, his head was throbbing and his tongue was thick. He stumbled to the kitchen, making coffee. It was a full five minutes before he realized Mary was still there. She was curled up on the couch, reading another one of her massive books.

"Morning, John." She said, turning a page.

He felt himself flush, remembering her bringing him home… And everything that he said afterwards…

"Uhm… Hi." He muttered.

"Do you remember what you said when I brought you home last night." She looked at him, a rare seriousness in her eyes.

He nodded, embarrassed.

"Did you mean all of it?"

He looked at her, a bit baffled.

"Well… I… Yes, of course I did…" He said.

She smiled a little, warmth flooding her expression.

"I was wondering when you'd realize it… I knew when I met you that you were gay." She shrugged, "And every time you spoke of Sherlock… It was undeniable how much you loved him. It just took you a while to come to terms with it."

He nodded.

"I just… I'd never thought about it that way. And if I did…" he shrugged, "I just… dismissed it. I figured… I was straight. Probably cause… Well, there was a huge row when Harry told our parents…"

"She's told me about it." She nodded.

"Well… It was… off-putting… How they reacted to her… So I just… denied it…" He sighed.

"And now?"

"Well, I've told you, haven't I? Finally said it to someone, and I'm finally… I finally believe it. I've gone my whole life trying to convince myself I wasn't, that I knew who I was. But… This is…" His brow furrowed. "This is better." He nodded.

"It always is." She smiled.

"I just wish…" He swallowed.

"You wish…?"

"I wish I'd told Sherlock."


	9. 28 Months

**28 Months.**

John was sitting, drinking tea, reading the paper. Everything had been markedly uneventful. Mary and Harry were still together, and he was glad to see Mary so happy with her. He knew that Mary was good for his sister, the two were such an excellent match. She'd been so supportive in keeping Harry clean, just as John knew she would be.

He set his cup down and something caught his eye. He turned his full attention to Sherlock's chair, and his mouth fell open. Sherlock was _there_. Sitting, curled up in his chair, his jacket and scarf still on, his hands together in front of him as though in prayer. He was right _there_!

"Sh-Sherlock?!" He gasped.

"Hello, John." He said, conversationally, as though he had never left.

"How… I don't… You're…" he spluttered.

"Come on, John, speak." He said, in his usual, infuriating, condescending fashion.

"How did you get in here?!"

"This is my home, John, I can come and go as I please."

"I… I didn't see you come in."

"You were reading the paper, of course you didn't. Who does that anyway? Just sits around in absolute silence and reads the paper? It's tedious. Boring."

"You know I always read the paper!" He said, indignant.

"That doesn't make it any less boring."

"You… How can you be here? You… You _died_, Sherlock!"

"You're right." He said, simply, and the next time John blinked, he was gone.

John sat, breathing heavily, trying to master himself. A hallucination… He'd just had a vivid hallucination that Sherlock was in his sitting room. He'd heard Sherlock on occasion, but he had never _seen_ him before…

He put his head in his hands, blinking hard. No… No, he couldn't get this bad… Not now, he'd been… Well, he'd almost been better! He'd felt like he was finally starting to move on, it was all hurting so much less, he had felt _better_.

"Of course, John, but you know you only felt that way because you'd hear me."

"Shut up…"

"You prefer this to silence."

"Shut up, you damned git!" he stood and started pacing. Out of the corner of his eye, he registered the familiar form again, this time leaning against the wall, just below the bright yellow smilie face.

"You need to resume therapy, John, we both know that. And this time, do try to talk to her, will you?"

John shook his head, his pace carrying him away from the illusion of Sherlock.

"You bastard," he muttered, "Do you have any idea how much I miss you?!"

"Sentiment, John… You know it only makes things worse."

"I don't care. I miss you. Every day, you know that?"

"I miss you, too."

"You're just saying that because you know it's what I want to hear. You don't _do_ things like that… You don't do sentiment."

"Maybe I do, John. Maybe I'm more than a machine."

John let out a sob, stopping and clutching his hair.

"Stop it! Stop it! Just… Just leave me alone! Dammit, leave me _alone_!"

He half-expected a reply, but received none. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, hands still in his hair. He hated being so broken, so mad, so lost. He hated being so alone… he wanted Sherlock back. Even though he knew hallucinations were far from healthy, he was sad this one had ended… At least Sherlock had been here in some form… some way…

He stood, tears still streaming. He locked the door to the flat. Turned off the lights. He curled up in Sherlock's bed.

He stayed there for the next three days.


	10. 32 Months

**32 Months.**

He sat, head in his hands.

"Why are you even still here?"

"Because you want me to be." Replied the cool voice.

He said nothing. It was true. He'd had conversations like this every day for the past month and a half. He knew it wasn't healthy. He could only imagine what Ella would say about it. He knew he should make some effort to move on, to stop.

And he didn't care. He wanted to hear Sherlock. Sometimes he saw him, more and more often.

"This is seriously unhealthy…" he murmured.

"Yet here I am. Or would you like me to go?"

"No."

"Then I won't."

"You're a selfish bastard, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"You just… jump off a building, leave me here. What the Hell's that about?"

"I'm sorry…"

"Damn right you are…" he scoffed. "Leaving like that…"

"John?"

He jumped, startled to see Mary in the doorway.

"M-Mary." He got up.

"John… You were doing it again, weren't you?" she sighed, "Talking to him."

He nodded.

"John…"

"Look, I know. I know, I should stop. It's not good for me, it's not healthy, I'm not moving on. I know all that…"

"No, I just… I mean, it isn't… It's not what's best, but… When you talk to him… Do you say what you wish you had when he was alive?"

"What d'you mean?" he asked, not looking at her, knowing exactly what she meant, knowing exactly what she wanted him to say to the Sherlock that wasn't even there, that would never be there again.

"Do you ever tell him how you feel?"

He shook his head, pinking the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger.

"No, Mary. I don't. Ever. I don't say it, I only ever said it to you. The one time, to you."

She tilted her head a little, "Why don't you say it?"

"Because… Because I'm honestly scared of what a man who isn't there will say in return. He's gone. He never felt the same way. I could have hated him, and it wouldn't have made any damned difference. It doesn't _matter_ now!" he didn't raise his voice, he just kept his eyes screwed tightly shut.

"John, it's been… It's been over two years and you've only said it once."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to you." She said, simply.

He shook his head, "Look, Mary, I-"

"Just… one of these days, in these conversations with a dead man… Just mention it. At least once." She crossed to the kitchen. "I stopped by to bring you some groceries. Mrs. Hudson said you hadn't been out in a few days." She stood in front of him for a moment.

"Mary…"

"Take care of yourself, or I'll have Harry come over here." She bent over, kissing the top of his head. "Just… say it. At least once."

-

The next morning, John woke. He dressed. He left 221b and caught a cab. He limped across carefully kept grass, stopping in front of the familiar black stone.

"I…" he stopped, leaning on his cane. "Sherlock… I asked you for one last miracle, just for me. You've… You're not coming through on it. I get it. I know that. I still want you to come home. I miss you."

"And I you." John looked up, and his nonexistent Sherlock was there, standing across from him, behind the black stone.

He nodded, staring, then reminded himself '_He's not there, John._' And when he looked up again, the pale figure was gone. He nodded to himself. He was getting a little better.

"There was a lot I should have said, you know." He sighed. "I should have told you… you're not a machine. I've never thought of you as a machine. Never. I was angry, so… I called you a machine. But that's far from what I thought of you."

He trailed off. Cleared his throat. Sighed, blowing air out of his puffed cheeks.

"What did you think of me, John?" The low voice was bodiless this time. John shook his head, reminding himself that Sherlock was gone.

"I thought… you were wonderful. You were important to me, you know. I… I cared about you. I'd have jumped in front of a bullet for you. I'd have done _anything_ you asked me to. I did, remember? I stayed on the ground. I kept my eyes on you." He let out a sad, sardonic bark of a laugh.

"I… I felt so guilty. Like I could have stopped you and didn't try hard enough. Like I missed something, some clue, some hint that you were going to do this. That you wanted to die. I felt like I let you down…"

Again, he stopped. He thought back, as he so often did.

"I miss you. Terribly. But… There's something else, too, Sherlock. Something I never said, something I should have said. Something that… That will never go away, that I don't want to go away. And that's… I love you."  
Silence greeted him. Total silence. No voice in his head, no dead man appearing before him.

"I love you. More than… More than a mate, more than a brother. Sherlock, I loved –_love_- you… Like I'll probably never love another person. Like I never expected to love another person. In a… an unexpected, wonderful way, I love you… And… I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never told you, I'm sorry you died and you never knew."

He nodded once, then straightened. As he had the first time he visited this stone, he saluted. He turned.

He left, still feeling like there was a hole in his chest, a hole in his life, a hole in his heart.

But at least he'd finally told Sherlock the truth.


	11. 36 Months

**36 Months.**

'Are you busy? JW'

'Not at all. MM'

'I could use company. JW'

'On my way. MM'

John set his mobile down, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't seen or heard from the Sherlock that wasn't there since he'd finally said aloud the things he'd thought over and over. He felt… Hell, he'd felt _better_.

It was strange, feeling better. Very strange. Of course, it still hurt. Today especially. But he'd been better. He hadn't felt like he was walking such a fine line between functioning and falling apart since he'd last visited Sherlock. Since he'd finally said what he'd meant to.

It was different, too, that he wanted Mary here today. He didn't intend to visit Sherlock, either. He wanted to just… stay in. Do his hurting at home and have someone with him for once. He remembered how he was last year and marveled at how different it all was.

The door opened and he jumped a little. He'd lost track of time in his musings. Mary popped her head into the room.

"I figure I'm here enough I don't need to knock anymore.""Guess not." He gave her a smile, crossing to hug her.

"so, what's on the agenda for today? Telly, drinking, or tears?"

"Maybe a bit of all three."

"Not for me, I'm going to Harry's tonight. I can only to telly and tears." She laughed a little. "But!" She dug in the bag she'd brought with her, "Since you said telly…"

"Oh, no, what have you brought?"

"These!" She pulled quite a large stack of DVD's from her bag.

"Doctor Who?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Doctors Nine through Eleven, yeah! You're about to be educated."

"I was unaware I was in need of this education." he laughed, grabbing a beer.

They watched in silence for a time, neither of them saying anything. Not about the day, not about how John was doing, not about why Mary was there. He was grateful once again for her quiet understanding and comfort.

After a while, he looked over at her.

"I haven't seen him." he said, with no introduction. "Or heard him. Not since... Not since I went to the grave and said it. Told him what he meant to me. Told him I love him."

She nodded.

"It's been... strange. Getting better. Not hearing him. I miss hearing him, but... at the same time I don't."

"Have you told Ella any of this?"

"Ella? No," he shook his head, "No, I've not been in months. Mycroft, when I met him... He told me to fire her. He was right -I came to realize that the Holmes brothers are usually right- I couldn't talk to her. She didn't help. Not like you do."

"Wait, you mean I could be getting paid for this?" She looked indignant, "Hey, don't hold out on me!"

"I introduced you to my sister, what more do you want?" He laughed.

It took some time for the laughter to fade, and when it did, they lapsed into comfortable silence once more. Then, again with no warning, he spoke, this time his eyes never leaving the television set.

"I'm scared." he said, simply, flatly. "Of forgetting him. I'm terrified that moving on will mean that I forget him. Forget how much he means to me and how much I needed him when he was here..."

She paused the TV and dug around in her bag, holding up a finger. She pulled out a book -thinner than the novels she usually read- and flipped through it for a moment.

"Ah, here we go: 'Because I will forget her, yes. That which came together will fall apart inperceptably slowly. But she will forgive me forgetting, just as I forgive her.'" She closed the book, sitting with it in her lap.

"What was that?"

"It's the main character talking about his friend, who died. They're not certain if it was suicide or not, but she was driving very drunk and... She could have stopped it. But she acted selfishly and didn't. The boy she left behind, the boy who loved her... He realizes that as he grows up and moves on, that he'll forget her. But... just like he had to forgive her for leaving him, she will forgive him for forgetting... He'd forgive you, John. In fact..." she gave him a small smile, "I imagine he'd wonder why you haven't deleted him already."

He nodded, eyes still fixated on the TV.

"I just... I don't want to forget. I always want to remember him, having him here. Being a part of the whirlwind that was life with Sherlock Holmes. The mad experiments, him being awake at all hours... I don't want to forget that. Even those things that used to drive me mad, I never in my life want to forget them. I don't want to forget those things..."

"I understand." she said, gently.

They stayed in the flat, occasionally commenting on life, on the goings-on in the episode they were watching. As darkness fell over London, Mary stood and stretched.

"Well, I'd better be off." She said, gathering her book and DVD's back into her bag.

He walked with her down the stairs and out onto the walk.

"Take care of yourself. Give Harry a hug for me." he said, embracing her.

"I will." She beamed at him and kissed his cheek.

He hailed her a cab, opening the door for her.

"You take care of yourself, all right?" She said, putting a hand on his arm before getting into the cab. "Go get some rest."

He nodded, sure he would do no such thing. The day was still far from over...

He watched her cab go, then returned inside, suddenly realizing that being alone was very... Very lonely. It was going to be a long night...


	12. Epilogue

**36 Months.**

He hadn't expected it to take three years.

Three years had proved to be a very long time. A lot of thinking, a lot of missing, a lot  
of close calls, a lot of traveling, a lot of nightmares, a lot of lying, a lot of running, a lot of changes, and a lot of feeling irrationally, illogically incomplete, like a part of him was missing.

John.

John was that part of him. He hadn't realized it until he had left, until John wasn't a part of his life, until he was talking to John and realized with a brutal clarity that John was not next to him.

He needed John.

He stands in the shadows across the street from 221b, watching John bid good-bye to the woman, most likely a new girlfriend. They were close. She'd been there all day. He watches as she kisses his cheek and he smiles. Sherlock sees John's mouth form the word 'Harry' and Sherlock makes the connection, and he lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. This woman is not John's, she is Harry's...

Sherlock wonders, not for the first time, if he should bother coming back at all. If he should let John move on.

John disappears back into the flat and Sherlock steps out onto the walk, watching the windows. He wants to go up, to go home, to be part of John's life again. To have John be part of his life once more.

He wants it more than he has ever wanted anything.

He shrugs his coat up, tightens his scarf. He's had Mycroft keep them. He couldn't take them with him for fear of being recognized.

He looks down at the clothes he is wearing, clothes that are so very unlike him. Faded jeans, converse shoes, a tee shirt with a Union Jack printed on it. Clothes he'd bought at the air port. The clothes he'd been wearing upon landing had been far too warm, he'd had to come straight from Russia...

He finds himself walking across the street, still looking at the windows of 221b. He sees John pacing restlessly about. When John leaves his line of sight again and doesn't return, Sherlock assumes he has settled down at the table or the sofa. Then, a light comes on. Not in John's room, no, but in Sherlock's old one.

Sentiment. John has always been one for sentiment. Sherlock finds himself smiling. He opens the door to 221b and slips in, quiet as a ghost. And he feels like a ghost... He isn't sure if he belongs here anymore, he isn't sure he can call this place his home any longer. He doesn't know if he is welcome...

He cautiously makes his way up the stairs, seventeen all told, but they feel endless now. He reaches the top and knocks, waiting, bracing himself.

He hears John make his way to the door. John's limp is back, prominent as ever. This makes his heart wrench. He hears the knob turn and he makes his face go flat, calm.  
The door opens and his heart lurches. There's John. Thinner, more gaunt, dark circles under his eyes. He looks worn, he looks tired.

"Hello, John." he says. His own voice sounds so... so underused.

"Sher-Sherlock?" John reels, looking thunderstruck, even a little scared. The cane clatters to the floor. "No... No, I thought... No, I stopped seeing you... ages ago..."

This hurts, to realize that John has hallucinated. To realize, even a little bit, what John's been without him...

"I'm here." he says, simply. He holds out his hand, palm up, fingers slightly curled. He waits.

John, eyes wide, mouth open. Slowly, eyes never leaving Sherlock's, he reaches out. His hand touches Sherlock's and, for the first time in three years, Sherlock feels like a complete man again.

This fades rapidly as John's expression goes from one of confusion, to one of pain, to one of anger. Without a word, he pulls Sherlock forward, the other hand coming up to his him, hard, punching him in the jaw. Sherlock stumbles, his vision going white.

"You utter bastard!" John shouts, trembling now, "You bastard, how could you do that? Leave me like that! How the Hell could you just..." he falls short of words, instead hitting Sherlock again, just as hard as he did the first time. "Dammit, Sherlock!" He pulls back his fist again, but this time, Sherlock catches it.

"John..." he says, his other hand wrapping around John's wrist.

"Three years!" John shouts, struggling briefly. Then, the anger seems to run out of him, to fade, and that pain is back and Sherlock realizes that he much preferred the anger. "Three years..." John slumps forward.

"It was to protect you," Sherlock says, voice steady, trying to remain calm, remain void of emotion. "Moriarty would have had you killed if he did not believe me truly beaten. If I wasn't gone. There were snipers that day. Waiting for the word to kill you. You and Mrs. Hudson and Greg." He keeps his line of sight over the top of John's, taking in the flat. John had kept so many of his things... The skull was still there, as was his violin... Evidence of John's sentiment, of how much he missed Sherlock was everywhere.

"Sherlock..." John gasps and Sherlock hears the tears in his voice and looks down. He lets go of John's hands and John wraps his arms around Sherlock, hugging him.

For a moment, just a moment, Sherlock considers merely standing there, waiting for John to stop. Then he remembers the past three years, how much he has realized about John, about himself and John, and John shouting at him 'You machine!'. Then he is hugging John back, never wanting to let him go.

"I missed you, you prat. You bastard." John says, still gasping, still crying, "I thought... I thought you'd jumped and I hadn't been able to stop you and I should have been able to and I thought you were dead..."

Sherlock lets him continue, let's him talk, familiarizing himself once again with John's voice, with his scent. When John quiets, when his breathing returns to normal, Sherlock finally speaks in a low, quiet voice.

"I missed you, as well. I regretted every day not being able to tell you, but it had to be believable. You had to think me dead, otherwise..." He cleared his throat. "I wasn't going to let them hurt you, John."

There is silence for a time, but neither man lets the other go. Sherlock is glad John doesn't move away. He's missed John too much to let him go yet. When John speaks again, it's a whisper, as though if he says the words too loudly Sherlock will disappear.

"I love you."

Sherlock stiffens for a moment then draws back from John, just slightly, looking into his eyes, searching for the joke, for any uncertainty, but all he sees is clarity and honesty behind a sheen of tears.

Then, against all logic, against all thought, he is kissing John, holding the other man's face in his hands. He feels John's fingers thread into his curls, massage his scalp. It feels unreal, yet at the same time the most solid thing that has been in his life since he left and he wonders, once again, why he was ever mad enough to leave John.

"John," he says, their kiss ending, their forehead touching still, "I missed you. I love you. You've proved me wrong since the day we met. I thought I could work alone, that I needed to work alone. I was wrong. I thought that I was meant to be alone, without friends, without people I needed and who needed me. I was wrong. I thought I wasn't meant to be attracted to anyone, that I would never be attracted to anyone. I was wrong. I thought that I wouldn't love someone, that I didn't ever need to love anyone, that love was tedious and useless. And I was _wrong_." He cannot stress enough how important it is that John understand that Sherlock has been wrong and he is admitting it and that it is John, it has always been John, and it will only ever be John that proves him wrong like this.

John stutters out a laugh, tears still tracing down his cheeks.

"God, Sherlock, I never thought I'd hear you say you were wrong that many times. I never thought I'd hear you say anything again."

Sherlock lets out a sound that could be a laugh or a sob, he doesn't know which, and he draws John close again.

"I do love you, John. I'm sorry. I won't leave you again. I will not leave you again. I need you." He sounds like some teenaged girl, but he doesn't care.

They stand for what feels like eternity, until John yawns, long and loud.

"Bed." Sherlock says, smiling.

"Come with me?" John asks, searching Sherlock's face.

Sherlock nods, walks to his old room, taking John's hand in his. They change, they exchange kisses, they say over and over again 'I missed you' and 'I'm sorry' and, above all, 'I love you.'

And as John falls asleep, his head on Sherlock's chest, Sherlock sighs and kisses the top of his head and closes his eyes.

He's home.


End file.
